Blues
by Spooky-Cactus
Summary: Based on Discworld Noir. Lewton has a bone to pick with Vimes - and maybe that's a rather appropiate metaphor. He's just another part of those old days. Implied slash. (Up to chapter 3)
1. Blues

Lewton was in a rather maudlin state of mind, as usual. Of course, it was Ilsa's fault. Everything for the last eight years had been her fault, in his view, but this was, shall we say, _particularly _her fault. Because she was back in Ankh-Morpork, with her _husband,_ no less, and he was walking the streets of Ankh-Morpork alone. Of course, even while his mind was given over to his melodramatic habit of wallowing in self-pity, his feet walked of their own accord and his eyes remained alert to anything. And he meant absolutely anything, because this, as he never, ever forgot, was Ankh-Morpork. But now his nose was alertas well. That was strange. Being a werewolf was strange.

He'd spoken to Carlotta again since the.. incident. She'd wanted to tell him one more thing. She said, "I'll let you in on a secret, Lewton. A werewolf can't turn just anybody. That's what people think can happen, and you, of course, know how stupid people are. And it's another reason to hate us. But if you or me were to just go around on a biting spree, we wouldn't have an epidemic of werewolves. In most people, it just doesn't... take. The beast has to be there. You can't give it to someone.. you can only give it shape. I did nothing but bring out what was already there."

He felt.. in tune. More so than usual. The docks and the Shades and the temples and most of all the Ankh were there in his mind as always, but now he could smell them. He felt like part of the city, and the night. He'd seen werewolves from Uberwald. They seemed contained, not quite at home, like animals out of their natural environment. But he was a city wolf. Cities had sharks and lions and vultures and bottom-feeders, so why not wolves?

Of course, it had been Vimes who'd first taught him to be alert. The Watch in general and Vimes in particular. But he wasn't going to think of Vimes. The song in Cafe Ankh had been blues, for Lewton, in more ways than one. The past was blues. He needed to stay in the present. He needed a drink. No.. he wasn't going to slip back in the alcohol haze of the last eight years. He was a whole new person. A whole new species. The animal in him knew you couldn't go back to what had burned you in the same way as before, but the doggedness of his mindset would never be able to leave it alone. Maybe if you got to it from behind, maybe if you did what it would never expect you to do, you would be alright. You could only try.

His feet, treading the same pathways as his mind, had taken him to Pseudopolis Yard.

Maybe now he knew what to do.


	2. Fangs

Lewton made his way up the bloodstained stairs and entred the Watch House. His eye caught that of Nobby at the reception desk. He didn't seem to be working, but his ears were emitting rather acrid smoke. Of course, what with most of Nobby's cigarettes being dog-ends from the streets of Ankh-Morpork, and the city's most prevalent smokers, the wizards, being in the habit of forming dog-ends together into new roll-ups, half of what he was smoking had probably been smoked continuously for the last ten years and the rest was dog turds.

"Hello, Lewton." said Nobby as the P.I. entered. None of the other watchmen seemed to be around, which was probably a good thing for Lewton. Vimes had probably told them all to treat him as dangerous serial killer who could strike again any second.

"Evening, Nobby," said Lewton. "Any idea where Vimes is?"

"Old Stoneface's in his office. But you're not going up there, are you? I know you two haven't been on the best of terms, and he's very overworked right now, _and_ he thinks you're the killer. I don't think it'd be a wise idea."

"Nobby, you wouldn't know a wise idea if it dressed up as Vetinari andperformed an erotic tap dance of the seven robes on your desk."

Lewton immediately headed for the stairs, while Nobby frowned and eventually said, "Fair enough." He didn't know the Pseudopolis Yard watch house; they hadn't moved into it until after Lewton had been discharged from the force. But he could smell Vimes.

He opened the door to the office without knocking and found Vimes half-hidden behind the old-growth forest of paperwork looming out of his desk.

"Come to give yourself up?" asked Vimes. The look he was giving Lewton wasn't just pointed. It was _fanged_.

"Good evening, Commander," said Lewton, ignoring that comment for the moment.

"It was passable," Vimes admitted, "But then you showed up. What are you doing here?"

"I just wanted to talk with an old friend about the good old days."

"Well, Nobby's downstairs. Don't let the door decapitate you on the way out. I'd hate for there not to be any left for me when we finally get you for these murders."

"Why do you still bear a grudge against me, Vimes?"

"You know why, Lewton," he replied, pronnouncing the name the same way he might say 'nobility', or the way others might say 'suspicious gutter-smelling brown lump in my distressed pudding.'

"What, Because I took a bribe? Just that once? You never held it against Fred or Nobby, and I know you knew about them."

"That was different. The odd cream cake from a baker, a dollar or two from an unlicensed thief not to hand him over to the Thieves' Guild, knowing what they'd do to him... that's differentto what you did."

Theymatched scowls for a moment. "It wouldn't have anything to do with the desperate comforts of two drunk and lonely men? I remembered it the other day - I saw a certain slogan and remembered whose buttocks exactly that was tattooed on, and how I knew."

Vimes had closed his eyes. Lewton knew the feeling - both of them, for various reasons, had tried to put that part of their life behind them. Vimes, perhaps, had had more success than him. Now, in such short a time, seeing Ilsa, remembering that and remembering this - it was like the reopening of a half-healed wound. "I promise you," said Vimes, "I fired you because you took a bribe from Lord Rust. He killed people, Lewton."

After a pause, Vimes opened his eyes. "How about, when you leave today, I'll try and forget that I ever met you. You're just a suspect in a case."

"Right." said Lewton, unconvinced. He glanced around the room. The curtains were closed, and the only light came from the candles on the desk. Almost on impulse, he leaned forward and kissed Vimes.

Vimes just stood there. Just stood there, not moving away but not joining in. But Lewton could see in his eyes _some_ kind of feeling. He was very good at being impassive. Lewton, meanwhile, just felt that familiar ache as if a troll was clenching his chest in one fist, a feeling he associated with the piano blues and Ilsa and the Song and Samael and cheap whiskey and Vimes. Suddenly, Vimes' eyes shot wide open. Lewton could remember the fire, remember the feeling as it scorched through every blood vessel, awakening he beast. He ended it, and something rather like a smile crept onto his face.

"Vimes." he said, "I know you'll always have a grudge against me, no matter what you say. But you may find that, from now on, you're a whole different person."

At that, Lewton practically laughed, as he left the room without another word, left the watch house, stood on the bloodstained steps, grinned madly at the moon... and howled.


	3. Drinks

There was a feeling of something in the air as Lewton and Gaspode walked away from the Palace. What was it called... Lack of Rain? Something in Lewton - Not Needing a Drink? Hope, that was the first word he was looking for. Happiness was the second. Gods. 'And the question is, name two words that only ever seem to happen to other people.' Well, now they were happening to him. Repeat, Gods. He'd saved the world, hadn't he? Maybe he deserved it. Maybe he should go home. Was that the sun rising? Had it been his imagination or his lack of sleep that made the last however long it had been since Carlotta gave him the Mundy case seem like one never-ending rainy night?

He turned a corner in his journey towards his office in Morpork, and someone was standing in front of him, red cape flapping in the breeze.

"Vimes," said Lewton, without much surprise. He'd used up all his meagre supply of surprise already last night. "I suppose I'm still not cleared of the murders that it is perfectly well documented were committed by the Cult of Anu-Anu? I suppose you want to arrest me, just for the hell of it?"

"No, no." said Vimes, "I just wanted to ask you a few questions. Like, is there any particular reason I spent the last night on all fours with something of an excess of body hair, and why Angua tells me there was another werewolf in the Watch House the night you visited me?"

"If it's not one thing with you, it's another. Where do I start?"

_A little less than eight years ago..._

"You shjknow what?"

"What, Sam?"

"Thatsh Conshta.. consha.. conshabbler... Samuel to you. I shjould have you demoted for being pished on duty, Lewton."

"Of course. Do you define 'pished' as being, for example, too drunk to pronnounce your own rank title, maybe?"

"Shut up. Thatsh.. thatsh inshubordination, that is." Vimes turned back to his latest drink. It was of the kind more suitablefor paint-stripping. Fixing his eyes unfocusedly on a small smudge on the wall that appeared to have split into three, he had a good go at remembering exactly what it was he was trying to forget.

"Of course I'm not under the affluence of inkahol, Ossifer," Lewton murmured to himself. He couldn't seem to get properly pissed tonight. Not enough to mess his thoughts up anyway. Just enough to prevent them from straying from the depressing subject matter he was trying to forget. You did, after all, have to remember what you were trying to forget. All else was maddness.

It certainly seemed that way tonight. He was dimly aware of the young man at the piano,playing some smoky blues that hit him where it hurt and would have brought tears to his mind if not his eyes even if he hadn't previously been in such a melancholy state of mind. He knew the pianist -Samael was liable to inherit the posh place in Ankh his father owned, but all he was really interested in was the music -had even come to this disreputable Morporkian toilet of a pubsimply because hethought someone here would listen. However, even he was having trouble concerntrating, since a gang of student Assassins had decided to see if it would be a ripping jape to give the beaks the slip and toddle off to a salty dive in Morpork full of the people their parents warned them to stay away from. Their loud voices, flashy clothes and unintelligable lingo, as well as putting off many of the regulars, were in serious danger of putting off his playing.

One of the trainee Assassins was sat on the other side of Vimes, sipping a glass of water that the bartender had begrudgingly dredged up from somewhere under the bar, and watching the others out of the corners of his eyes.

It was some time before either Vimes or Lewton spoke again. Eventually Lewton said, "I think we should get out of here now."

Vimes raised his eyes carefully. "Why?"

"Two things: one, the Assassins look about ready to swing on the light fittings any moment now, and two: we've run out of money."

Vimes nodded, and made a reasonable attempt of standing up. He was alright until the floor unaccountably decided to move sideways, and end up under his right side. Floor wasn't supposed to do that.

It was only with Lewton's support that he managed to arrive back at his lodgings. It was a tiny, sparse room thathad had so many people living in it, one a at a time, that it had lost all personality and could only ever be looked upon a somewhere to stay and not somewhere to live.

If you'd asked them about it later, they wouldn't have known what to say. In fact, if you asked them later, they'd probably have been too drunk to have given you an intelligable answer even if they did. If they'd lived today, in our world, they might have referred to it as 'a rebound thing'.

Either way, you had to agree that it was one way of forgetting.


End file.
